The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  ‘You search his farm buildings?’

  Thambo looks across to de Vries.

  ‘No, sir. You had found the bunker. I just talked to the guy, that’s all.’

  De Vries jerks the steering wheel sideways to avoid a deep rut, throws both of them to the right and then jolts them back again. It does not occur to him to slow down.

  ‘What about his workers? You get a list of them?’

  ‘Ja. It’s in the file.’

  ‘Any of them white?’

  ‘No. They are either black workers from the camp down there, or his managers are coloured guys.’

  ‘They live on site?’

  Thambo looks at the vibrating notes in his lap.

  ‘Two couples. Farm manager, his deputy and their wives. One of them is a domestic worker at the farmhouse, the other helps with the farm shop.’

  ‘This Thuissen . . . he married?’

  ‘His wife left, he says. He is a bad-tempered man.’

  ‘Been married myself,’ De Vries grunts. ‘Can’t blame him.’

  Thuissen snaps open the farmhouse door, steps out and stands right up to Thambo and de Vries.

  ‘I’ve already spoken with this guy,’ he tells them, pointing his chin at Thambo.

  ‘I know. We want to talk to you again,’ de Vries tells him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to talk to you, Mr Thuissen.’

  Thuissen examines de Vries, head to toe.

  ‘All right. Come in then.’

  He looks back at Thambo, but de Vries says, ‘Just take a look around, Sergeant.’

  Thuissen frowns.

  ‘Look around? Why?’

  De Vries gestures for Thuissen to enter his own front door, follows him in.

  De Vries says, ‘There’s been another abduction. We have to check everywhere for a fugitive.’

  De Vries looks around at the big kitchen, taken aback by the mess: filthy dishes in and by the sink, blackened pans around the stove, one upturned on the quarry-tiled floor, plates and boards on the worktops. The smell is of sweating old cheese. The kitchen table is covered in papers, half a dozen odd-coloured mugs, pieces of bread and the remains of a leg of lamb. Everywhere is the low, insistent hysteria of flies feeding, fighting for the finest detritus. De Vries recoils.

  Thuissen notices his reaction.

  ‘My maid is sick,’ he says. ‘I don’t have time. Come through.’ He leads de Vries into a similarly untidy, but relatively fly-free lounge. Two Labradors wag their tails wanly as they enter, but do not move from their beds in the corner.

  Thuissen sits down and de Vries chooses the frayed arm of a chair to face him; he watches Thuissen in silence, watches him murmuring to himself, looking from side to side, refusing to meet de Vries’ eye.

  Finally, the man looks up, licks his lips, says, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you, Mr Thuissen. Another child has been abducted and, since the others were held here in the Riebeek Valley, just off your land, we have to check everywhere again.’

  Thuissen nods slowly.

  ‘You’ve seen anyone or anything unusual in the last forty-eight hours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A tall white guy and a boy, aged about eight?’

  ‘I’ve been here – around the farm. I don’t have a vehicle, except for that little car. My bakkie is still in the garage.’

  ‘Did you know about that government building, that bunker? You know it was over there, just off your land?’

  Thuissen shakes his head.

  ‘You have any white workers on your farm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See any white guys on Fineberg farm up there?’

  ‘No. I’m up by that boundary maybe two or three days a year, checking the fences, nothing else. Never seen anyone there.’

  De Vries stares at him.

  ‘What?’ Thuissen asks him.

  ‘You okay?’ de Vries says blankly.

  Thuissen smiles sourly.

  De Vries waits, saying nothing, feeling that Thuissen is contemplating, meditating on something, wondering whether it is something he might tell him. After another minute, Thuissen has said nothing.

  De Vries says, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m okay. You?’

  ‘You have something to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Are you finished now, with your questions? I have to work.’

  Thuissen doesn’t move and de Vries stays where he is, aware of the silence, but for the breathing of the sleeping dogs.

  ‘My wife,’Thuissen starts. ‘My wife fucked off six months ago, emptied our bank account, took all our savings – not that there was much. I have no money to pay the guys, the harvest won’t even pay my debts and the guy at the garage won’t give me back my bakkie, so no, man, I’m not all right. I feel like shit.’

  He keeps his head down, but de Vries rises. The pressure has been released, and de Vries believes him, but he will not be distracted.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  De Vries walks back through the rancid kitchen, out into the muddy courtyard. Thambo is waiting for him.

  ‘Come see this, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at this barn.’

  De Vries follows Thambo around the back of the farmstead towards a long, low modern shed with a corrugated-iron roof. He pulls open the door and ushers de Vries inside.

  The room is dimly lit by a string of low-voltage bulbs in tin pendants in a row down the length of the room, and at first de Vries discerns only a storeroom of old furniture. As his eyes adjust, he observes order: a selection of old white goods – fridges, stoves, freezers – some with their doors open, against the walls, a line of trestle tables covered in blankets and six narrow iron beds in a row at the far side. Every other bed has a large knitted soft toy on it: a giraffe, a zebra and an elephant.

  De Vries walks in further, considers the scene. Through an internal door to the left is a scruffy tack room with saddles and horse blankets hanging from a horizontal beam, horse-feed, brushes and reins arranged reasonably neatly on shelves. He turns back into the main body of the barn. It makes no sense. He exits the building, finding Thuissen at the corner of the courtyard.

  ‘I thought you were leaving,’ Thuissen says quietly.

  De Vries gestures him towards them with the tips of his fingers. As Thuissen approaches, he points at the door to the barn.

  ‘What do you use this room for, Mr Thuissen?’

  Thuissen looks up glumly and studies the open door of his own barn. ‘War games.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They come the last weekend of every month. Fifteen, sixteen of them. Bring their computers, wire them up, plug ’em in, sit there all night Friday through to Sunday afternoon. Sleep in shifts, eat in shifts. Some of them don’t see daylight all weekend. Then they get in their cars and go home. All I know is, they pay me, and right now, I need every cent I can get.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Men. All men. From Bellville. It’s a club. Men in their twenties, some in their sixties. Pale as ghosts, some of them, never take their coats off. Looked in once, but they don’t look up. All they want is power for their computers and a couple of heaters in the winter. My wife offered to make them a braai once, but they said they couldn’t stop, couldn’t leave the war.’

  De Vries trances for a moment.

  ‘They stay there all the time?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘They don’t go out, wander around?’

  ‘No. They just sit and play and sleep in shifts.’

  De Vries ponders.

  ‘All right, we’re leaving. Goodbye, Mr Thuissen.’

  Thuissen follows de Vries across the yard, blurts out, ‘I heard shots.’

  De Vries spins around. ‘What? When?’

  ‘Fortnight ago, Sunday. Could have come from that bunker place. Wasn’t sure. The bakkie had broken down. I was walking home. Thought they were
shots.’

  ‘The officer who came here to talk to you – you tell him this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Thuissen looks at Ben Thambo, back at de Vries. Mumbles, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t report it?’

  ‘Could have been hunting.’

  De Vries stares at Thuissen’s face. ‘But you knew it wasn’t. What else did you hear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thuissen says firmly.

  De Vries shakes his head.

  ‘I think you heard the murder of two young boys.’ He moves towards the car, and then turns back again. ‘And you did nothing, said nothing.’

  De Vries gestures to Thambo, marches away from the man, gets into the driver’s seat of the car. Slams the door.

  Thuissen raises a hand, leaves it there unmoving, staring at them.

  ‘These people,’ de Vries sighs. He says to Thambo, ‘The other farm: get us there as quick as you can.’ He sets off at a pace back onto the dirt track.

  Thambo says: ‘You think he would not speak to me because of my colour?’

  De Vries thinks exactly that.

  ‘I think he has no one and nothing in his head but himself.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why be sorry? What’s the name of this other place?’

  ‘It’s owned by an Ernest Caldwell. He came from England twenty years ago. He was away when the teams first came, but I spoke to him later. We have to drive around Thuissen’s place and rejoin the Riebeek West road.’

  They approach the Caldwell farm down a narrow track lined with gnarled bottlebrush trees. To his right, de Vries can see grain fields, blackened by fire where the stubble has been burnt to the ground after harvesting. He powers down the track, ignoring the sound of the underside of the car being caught on the raised grassy centre of the lane. His stomach rumbles from having eaten almost nothing all day, but he disregards it, presses on, stopping the car in front of the farmhouse. A middle-aged woman opens the front door while they are still getting out of the car. She has her arms open, smiling warmly. She registers them and the smile evaporates.

  ‘This is a private farm,’ she tells them. ‘Private land.’

  De Vries shows her a badge. ‘We’re police.’

  ‘Oh. I was expecting a friend. How can I help you?’

  ‘Who are you?’ de Vries asks.

  ‘Who am I? I live here.’

  De Vries opens his mouth and closes it again, takes a breath.

  ‘It’s not an accusation. I just need to know your identity.’

  The woman laughs. ‘Sorry. I’m . . . . what would you call me? I guess I’m Ernest’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies firmly. ‘For the last two years.’

  ‘Mr Caldwell did not mention you when I spoke to him last week,’ Thambo says.

  She stands at the front door, nonplussed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ de Vries says. ‘We’re in the middle of a very important investigation. We thought we knew everybody who was living in the vicinity. What is your name?’

  ‘Deirdre. Deirdre Trott.’

  ‘Miss Trott, I need to speak to Mr Caldwell. Is he inside?’

  ‘No. I mean . . . no. He’ll be out by the perimeter barns. He’ll be checking the feed harvest is safely away for the winter. You want me to show you?’

  De Vries hesitates. ‘No, thank you. Just tell me where to go, then speak to my Sergeant here.’

  ‘All right.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Hang on a moment.’ He turns Thambo away from her and walks him towards the car.

  ‘Sergeant, call your guys in Riebeek-Kasteel and get one of them to pick you up. Speak to Miss . . .Trott here, and just check she doesn’t know anything. Maybe take a look inside. Make copies of the picture you’ve been emailed, get out and about and see if, by some freak chance, anyone has seen this child and a tall white guy. I’ll meet you back at the guest-house later.’ He has an afterthought. ‘And Thambo – tell no one I am here, except for Don February, and even then make sure it’s on his cellphone and not on landlines. Do it for your own sake as well as mine. You haven’t seen me, okay?’

  Thambo nods, calls his team while de Vries gets instructions to the barns from Deirdre Trott. When he has the route, he takes the Toyota and finds the track which leads around the farm. He opens his cellphone and checks reception. It seems good enough. He calls Don February.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘I’m at the Caldwell farm. Nothing yet. What about your end?’

  ‘I’m in trouble, sir. I stayed out of sight until after three, then I had all hell let loose on me when they could not find you. I told them you felt sick and had gone to find a chemist. I do not know if they believed me, but now they are worried that you will talk to the press and the media.’

  ‘I don’t care, Don. If I don’t find this boy Joe, I don’t think I want a job any more. You just keep your head down and nothing will stick.’

  ‘You have visited the bunker?’

  ‘No. Can’t see the point.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We still have guys there, don’t we? It’s still sealed off.’

  ‘Not since Monday. It is sealed, but there’s no one there as far as I know. You could ask Thambo.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I’ll go after I’ve spoken with Caldwell. Thambo may call you. Ask him then. Call me if anything comes up – but Don? Watch yourself.’

  He hangs up, negotiates a right-angled turn, continues up the hill towards a copse of gum trees.

  * * *

  He takes almost fifteen minutes to wind his way gingerly over the deeply rutted track past fallow fields and then up a long stretch towards the summit of a broad rolling hill. As he crests the summit, the low evening sun hits the windshield and blinds him. He pulls down the sun-visor, squints at the road ahead, makes the turn and sees two huge barns some 300 metres ahead of him. Apart from their dark forms, the whole scene is bleached white by the low autumn sun, and de Vries keeps his left hand raised over his left eye to block out the intense light.

  He finds Ernest Caldwell smoking by his car outside the entrance to the first of the two barns. Caldwell waves at de Vries and starts to trudge towards him the moment the Toyota’s engine is switched off.

  ‘De Vries? Deirdre called me on my cell. If she’d thought, I could have come back to the house.’ He grips Vaughn’s hand firmly, shakes it. ‘We’re all in shock here. We can’t believe it. Those poor children only a few kilometres from our house, just off our land. We can’t get our heads around it.’

  ‘I was searching for them for seven years. I knew they, or their bodies, were somewhere.’

  They stand silently for a moment. There are swallows on the wing; their plaintive cries drift on the strong breeze.

  Caldwell nods. ‘What can I do for you?’

  De Vries studies him for a moment, shuffling around until his back is to the sun. Caldwell is the first person he has met today who has seemed relaxed and content, his face and body-posture open, his eyes met with his own. Everyone is hiding something, but Caldwell just smiles affably, awaiting instruction. It almost throws him.

  ‘We have an ongoing situation, sir,’ de Vries tells him, leaning in to speak above the persistent breeze. ‘I need to review some information. Is that all right?’

  Caldwell offers him a cigarette. De Vries declines, pulls his own pack from his pocket and they both stick one in their mouths. Caldwell passes him a heavy, industrial-looking lighter.

  ‘Wind-proofed. Vital here. Deirdre gave it to me.’ De Vries nods, fires it up, and passes it back to him. ‘Ask whatever you like.’

  ‘You told my men you had no idea about the government building, the bunker, just off your land?’

  ‘Yes – I mean, no.’ He laughs. ‘I was amazed to discover it was there. I would have expected the Land Searches to have thrown it up, but I guess it was
secret. There are all sorts of rumours going ar—’

  ‘What about the rest of your workers?’ de Vries interrupts. ‘Did they ever speak to you about it?’

  ‘No, Colonel. You can see for yourself if you want to drive around the farm. It’s at the furthest corner from us. We don’t even cultivate those distant fields at the moment, so there’s no need for any of us ever to go there. And as you’ll see, it’s in a dip. I went up there after everything had happened. I couldn’t get a bakkie anywhere near, it’s too rough.’

  ‘So, none of your workers would ever have been there?’

  ‘No. I suppose Terry might have ridden out that far, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Who’s Terry?’

  ‘Terry Hardiman. He’s our groom. We have stables here and he oversees the team. Spends most of his time in the saddle, training my kids, or taking visitors for rides.’

  De Vries feels his fingers tingle. ‘Your groom. A white guy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long has he worked for you here?’

  Caldwell looks taken aback. ‘I don’t know. Maybe six or seven years. Why?’

  ‘South African guy?’

  ‘Yes. Well, English originally, I believe. I think of myself as a Bokkie now . . .’ He chuckles, but checks himself when he sees de Vries’ frozen expression. ‘We don’t spend a lot of time together. He knew my last girlfriend better – and my kids, of course. He has his own cottage with its own stables, just along from the cottages and the main stable-block. I think he said he came from Port Elizabeth, spent some time in the UK. I’m from Derbyshire originally. Got divorced, wanted a new start. Why?’

  De Vries considers for a moment. Then: ‘Got a picture of him?’

  Caldwell splutters. ‘Not on me.’ He laughs. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Probably not. You have any other white employees?’

  ‘A couple of girls who work in the shop. They come in from Riebeek West three days a week. Otherwise, no.’ Caldwell clicks his fingers. ‘Actually, I do have a picture of Terry. Come inside.’

  He leads de Vries into the first of the two barns and then through an interior door into a small office with a chipboard desk and an old iron filing-cabinet. On the wall is a distorted piece of paper, printed with a photographic image. The first thing de Vries notices is the broad band of deep blue sky that runs across the top. As he approaches it, he sees that it is a group shot of people in front of the two barns.